Alaric’s fingers shifted against hers. She turned her gaze back to him. With a final breath, she swallowed and steadied her voice.
“I swear it,” she whispered, brushing her finger once against his. “With my name, my honor, and my heart, I take Prince Alaric of Varantia as my husband. I vow to walk beside him, not behind. To be his strength as he is mine. To learn him, as he learns me. I will stand at his side in all that we build together, for as long as the stars shine above.”
There was a pause as the High Preceptor’s gaze moved lazily from Alaric to Evelyne. Then he exhaled.
“Then by the will of the Orvath’s Doctrine and the decree of the law, I bind you as husband and wife. Let your union be unshaken, your rule be just, and your bond be everlasting.”
Still no blood.
The Preceptor turned to Alaric with a mild abhorrence.
“You may kiss your bride,” he drawled.
He spoke without meeting either of their eyes, his attention sliding past Evelyne as though she were already erased from the room.
She had imagined this moment once, quietly, in the privacy of her mind. Standing before the goddess of hearth and home. She had pictured Halwen’s steady hand and soft smile, the almost imperceptible nod he gave her when she did well during lessons.
But instead, she got Orvath's vessel. Dressed in judgment and draped in ceremonial frost.
Even the gods felt absent.
The sound around her blurred, folding into an indistinct hum against the pounding of Evelyne’s heartbeat.
And then—his eyes.
His gaze saw her. His hands rose gently, lifting her veil. Her breath caught as the fabric passed her cheeks. His forehead dipped toward hers, not quite touching. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
Evelyne blinked up at him, her lungs struggling to obey. But his voice was constant. She swallowed, forced in a trembling breath. Another. She tried not to dwell on the thought that every inhale could be her last, tried not to tense at the silence, waiting for it to shatter with a scream.
All she felt was him—his presence like warmth after a long nivalen.
“May I?” he murmured.
She couldn’t speak so she just nodded. Her heart pounded so fiercely she could feel it against her ribs, a rapid staccato she couldn’t control.
Alaric leaned in, cradled her face and kissed her.
It was soft and impossibly gentle. A brush of lips. Just warmth and the faintest ghost of something she didn’t understand.
It should have been nothing.
And yet, the moment his mouth met hers, something shifted—deep and ancient. A flicker of heat bloomed in her chest, curling around her ribs like smoke rising from embers long thought cold.
The world did not move. The sky did not shake. But there was a pull, as quiet and undeniable as echo. A thread, invisible and warm, stretching from the hollow of her throat to somewhere behind his ribs. She squeezed her eyelids, waiting for the reality to collapse.
And then it ended.
He drew back, slowly. Her eyes fluttered open and she noticed his eyes on her, unguarded. The applause that followed was meant to be restrained, but as they turned to face the gathered crowd, the hall erupted into thunderous applause, like a release of held breath. Apparently, in the case of a royal wedding, even Edrathen could forget its own rules. Her father included. Or perhaps it was simply relief that no one had died.
For now.
Alaric was quicker to recover. He straightened, his expression slipping into something princely. Evelyne forced herself to do the same.
His palm brushed against hers, their fingers weaving together with careful intent. Slowly, he raised her gloved hand and pressed his lips to it.
Almost unwillingly, Evelyne turned back, drawn by something denser than curiosity. The High Preceptor remained where he was, unmoving, his stare fixed and narrow, waiting.
